


counting bodies like sheep

by enbyofdionysus



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Insecurity, M/M, art students, graphic design students, hurt comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 23:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6880435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbyofdionysus/pseuds/enbyofdionysus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That’s really good.”</p><p>He tenses abruptly at the voice.</p><p>And then continues tilting his sketchbook to get a better angle; he doesn’t want to smear the pencil on the side of his hand. “Thanks,” he mumbles, not looking up.</p><p>The guy stands behind him for a few more moments, much to Percy’s irritation, before coming into his peripheral vision. He’s blond from what Percy can see, but he doesn’t want to look up, to make eye contact. That would mean having a conversation.</p><p>No eye contact doesn’t seem to stop Blondie, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	counting bodies like sheep

A gust of cool air comes from the Art Center’s entrance and makes Percy’s skin pebble. He rubs at his arm agitatedly to make the bumps go away before re-adjusting himself on the arm of the couch – one of many that make up the Art Center lounge at HBU. He pulls his marker back from his sketch before he can leave an undesired mark on his line art, resting the cap between his teeth as he moves to adjust his pad.

“That’s really good.”

He tenses abruptly at the voice.

And then continues tilting his sketchbook to get a better angle; he doesn’t want to smear the pencil on the side of his hand. “Thanks,” he mumbles, not looking up.

The guy stands behind him for a few more moments, much to Percy’s irritation, before coming into his peripheral vision. He’s blond from what Percy can see, but he doesn’t want to look up, to make eye contact. That would mean having a conversation.

No eye contact doesn’t seem to stop Blondie, though.

“No, seriously,” he says, “that’s really good. Reminds me of the little bear cubs from _Brave_.”

Percy stops drawing for a fragment of a second, staring down at the design he’s been working on for his personal logo. He’d been working on a concept for three days – his monogram idea ruined the second Octavian sneered that it looked like ‘BJ’ – before choosing to work with an old, childhood nickname his mom had given him.

He spits, acidic, “It’s an otter.”

“Oh,” the guy says, chagrined. “Sorry. The way it’s bent made me think of a celtic drawing of a bear.”

Percy stares at his sketchbook again, this time with new eyes. The otter is curved in a way that shows off its lithe body and playful nature; he’d chosen to go with that design for that reason. But now that he looks at it, he sees what the guy means: with a few celtic knots, it could easily be a bear.

_Dear Percy,_

_We regret to inform you that, after a thorough evaluation of your application, we are unable to offer you admission to the MFA Graphic Design program at the California Institute of the Arts for the Fall 2016 semester._

The letter still sat in his Inbox on his phone.

Percy stares at the otter-turned-bear.

And crushes the brush tip of his marker across the sketch in violent streaks.

The guy beside him jerks. “What–! _Jeez_. What’d you do that for?”

Percy snaps, “Because it’s shit,” and smacks his sketchbook onto the couch cushion beside his bag. He gets up to put his things together, suddenly tired. His mom will want to know if he’d gotten his letter.

“Third school’s the charm,” she’d told him that morning with a shoulder squeeze.

Blond Guy still hasn’t gotten the memo to scram by the time Percy’s shoved his copic markers and leadless mechanical pencils into his bag. Instead, what he says is “I didn’t mean to upset you” because it’s obvious by now that what he wants is eye contact and because the gods have always hated Percy, Percy sighs roughly through his nose and turns his head to give the kid what he wants.

Except the kid isn’t a kid.

He’s one of the graduate students from Professor Meyer’s Art Education class. Correction: _the_ graduate student from Professor Meyer’s Art Ed class. As in: Jason Grace, the hot-as-the-sun grad student Percy’s been crushing on from afar ever since he’d come in during one of their labs to use a Mac and overheard Creedence Clearwater Revival in Jason’s headphones.

He’s just as good looking today as every other time Percy’s seen him with his beautiful cheekbones, cool blue eyes, and arms made to hold a very specific tan body against a wall.

Except now he’s looking at Percy as if he’s personally offended his dead mother.

“You didn’t upset me,” Percy appeases, his ears reddening as he shoves his sketchbook into his bag. He runs his eyes over the couch to make sure he has everything. “Just not having the best day.”

“Even so, man, you shouldn’t destroy your work like that. I meant it when I said it was really good. Like tattoo-worthy good.”

Percy shrugs, not quite buying it. He’s heard the phrase “it’s not attractive to be insecure about your work” a million times, but right now all he wants to do is burn everything. He thinks about the other artists in his classes who have a leg up over him, majoring in Visual Communications and Design instead of just minoring in it like Percy is, and how their work always seems to be better regardless of how many hours he practices and does concept work, no matter how many references he uses.

“Just keep working,” his professors always say. “That’s the key to good work. More practice. Just look at where you were a year ago.”

Percy does look and it only makes him feel worse rather than better.

He wants to give up.

He wants to hate art, wants to hate MACs, wants to hate the pen tool and the stupid voice at the back of his mind that always tells him he can be just as good one day because right now all of his rejection letters are saying the opposite and he can’t quite bare to have someone like Jason Grace lie to his face right now.

“Thanks,” Percy says dismissively and shoulders his bag.

He’s about to leave, calculating whether or not he has enough money in his bank account to go through Tim Horton’s for a non-celebratory iced-capp, when Jason stammers, “Are you free?”

Percy blinks at him. “Uh?”

“I’m sorry, I see you a lot in the computer lab on the weekends and I actually really like your style,” he shrugs a little, “even if you think it’s shit. And I was wondering – I’ll pay you, of course – if you would want to maybe co-illustrate the cover of this scrapbook I’m making for my sister. She’s stationed down in Texas right now and she’s not gonna be here for her birthday, so I figured– I mean, you have this cool, grunge look to your stuff and she’s all about that punk life, you know?”

It’s the most Percy has ever heard Jason talk. Usually he’s quiet, face too close to the computer screen and pushing his glasses up his nose every five minutes, the only sound being the 60s rock music coming from his headphones. When he does talk, it’s to run ideas by Meyer or to talk to his friend, Leo, in hushed tones at the back of the lab.

Percy frowns. “You want me to help you?”

“If that’s okay with you. Is a hundred bucks okay?”

“A hundred…”

“I can pull up a W2 too if you’re not okay with doing things under the table.”

Percy glances at the Art Center entrance. Sun is breaking across the windows, making the dozens of art student fingerprints on the glass stand out like their own kind of greasy mural.

He looks back at Jason whose stance is open and earnest. The hopeful look in his eyes makes Percy’s chest do things. He lets himself glance at Jason’s lips before darting his eyes away. He swallows. “Alright.”

Jason perks up. “Yeah?”

Percy smiles, nervousness replacing insecurities. “Yeah. So what are you thinking of doing.”

The scar on Jason’s upper lip disappears as he grins. “Alright, so you know that otter you were drawing…?”


End file.
